


This Hologram Is Not Suitable For Young Audiences

by Etharei



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, M/M, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etharei/pseuds/Etharei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Winchesters are still hunters, there are still angels and demons, and Dean is still a horndog. But the guns are flashier and the Impala is a spaceship. Oh, and they're in space. (Dean/Cas, and a remix of choice moments from season 4.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Hologram Is Not Suitable For Young Audiences

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the " **Genre** " challenge at the [Fan Flashworks](http://fan-flashworks.livejournal.com) comm.

"Winchester," a familiar voices hisses from one of the booths. "Last I heard, you were in the Pit."

Dean's face automatically stretches into his best cocksure grin. "Yeah, well, I busted out." He hopes no one can tell how jumped-up on nerves he is, but knowing his luck, one of the shady figures huddled around Viktor's table has an enhanced sense of smell or an empathy biotic or something.

"No one busts out of the Pit," growls one of Viktor's buddies. Isart, though only the greenish tips of its eight fingers are visible, poking out from the sleeves of its voluminous robes. From any other species, the statement might be taken as a threat, but all the Isarti Dean has ever met has perfected that gravelly, actual-rocks-in-the-voicebox way of speaking that seems to hint at loaded quas-guns and a hidden stinger or two. 

It's easy, far too easy, to slide back into old patterns of behavior; like the meatsuit remembers, even when the motions feel thirty years too distant for the rest of Dean.

Shit. _Meatsuit._ And it's not even his old one, not really, so the sense memory idea doesn't make, well, sense. 

Sam might have a point about it being too soon to be out and about on his own.

But word would have gotten out the moment they'd taken up hunting again. Making a personal appearance at the Roadhouse is the best way to do some damage control before the speculation over _what happened to him?_ and, more importantly, _what is he now?_ can take root.

"Is that so?" Dean says to the Isart. "You might be right, but I didn't want to imply that your sources of information aren't up to standard or anything."

The Isart seems to take this peacably, but Viktor growls and cocks his head. "Get the fuck out of my face, Winchester, or I'll personally escort you back to Hel myself."

Dean swallows back the retort _like you have balls to get within ten light-years of the Pit_ and just winks at them all, before swaggering over to the bar. 

Ellen knows better than to sigh in relief when he gets there, but the hand that must have been fondling a shock-rifle under the bar is now polishing a beer mug with conspicuous vigor. Her eyes flickered behind him. "Well, I see no bleeding, broken bones, or property damage, so it's already going a lot better than Bobby said it would."

"'S probably the shock," says Dean. He hopes Bobby never finds out how much he'd been banking on it. 

"Honey." Ellen leans in, voice quiet and kind. "You know they're still gonna talk. And there's some who'd say that you wouldn't have been able to stroll out of the Pit unless the Pit _released_ you for some reason. They'll be watching real hard, now."

Sad thing was, getting out of Hel hadn't exactly been a _stroll_ , either. But, for now, all Dean's told them is that he'd woken up at the Cemetery, the half-abandoned Gateway right outside the Hels planetary system, with no idea how he'd gotten there. 

It's as true as saying he doesn't remember his time in Hel. 

Dean shrugs, like he can't give a fuck how stupid people want to waste their time. "Guess I'll just have continue being my charming, pain-in-the-ass self, then."

\+ + +

The comp screen floating in the air in front of Dean has been stuck on the same window for the last three days, but Dean can't bring himself to close it yet, so he just opens a different window when he wants to do something else, leaving this one hovering in the background. It's the only one open right now, though. There are no pictures, just a scant few lines of text. And several hundred reference links, all colored purple for 'unreliable'.

> RACE: Angelus

> SUMMARY:  
> Considered by many sectors of civilization to be purely mythological, this elusive race has nonetheless been credited with the discovery of interstellar space flight and laying the foundations for the deep space bridges that eventually introduced humanity to other space-faring sentient lifeforms in the post-TenSol expansion. Their appearance in numerous religious traditions across the galaxy, most notably Earthworld's Abraimic branches, HikHikTal's _bakteemri_ sect, and 578T's Orders of See, seems to support the argument that this race did exist at one time. However, it is widely agreed, even amongst the proponents of their existence, that they are currently extinct. 

> PHYSICALITY:  
> They appear to take on the shape of the dominant sentient life form on the planets where evidence of them survive. This suggests a shapeshifting ability, or perhaps a form of natural telepathy that involves the projection of illusions. If true, this likely evolved as a defense mechanism, and perhaps aided their integration into the cultures they encountered.

> POINTS OF NOTE:  
> A wide spectrum of abilities have been attributed to this race, and there are small differences between cultures. Perhaps due to their religious associations, the most commonly recorded abilities were - healing, telepathy, telekinesis, teleportation, eidetic memory, knowledge of all spoken and written languages.  
> 

"Your information networks are surprisingly accurate, despite the dearth of legitimate sources."

Dean's chair, which he'd tipped back on its two hind legs, overbalances and sends him sprawling over the carpeted floor at the newcomer's feet. Dean is momentarily undecided between embarassement and annoyance, but annoyance kicks embarassement's ass to the curb.

"What the Hel," he shouts. "In what universe is it okay to just show up in someone's motel room uninvited?"

The specimen of _Angelus_ , who Dean would have thought to be an average male human of Earth-European descent if not for Dean's still-aching eardrums and presently appearing in Dean's locked, heavily warded motel room with barely a sound, is not even looking at Dean.

"Your chair," the creature intones. 

"What?" Dean blinks, derailed.

"Your chair. It is not attached to the floor, like the rest of the furniture on this craft."

Seriously? That's what this thing wants to focus on? "It came with me," Dean finds himself explaining, for lack of anything better to say. "It's mine. I take it with me wherever I go." Damn inconvenient at times, because the gravity wells at seedy motels are not exactly reliable. But he can't imagine going anywhere without it, no more than he can imagine driving the Impala without it, or trusting his life to any other ship than the Impala.

Dean shakes his head. "How did you get in here? Wait - _why_ are you here?"

The angel turned to face him. "I have given you time to recover from your ordeal in Hel. Perhaps, now, you are amenable to listening to what I have to say."

Dean snorts. "Right. Here's a tip - when a guy's still bloody and black-eyed and death-touched from the Pit? So _not_ the best time to be trying a conversation." He refuses to apologize for attacking the angel. Doesn't seem to have hurt it any, anyway. 

"I realize that now," the angel says somberly.

When it doesn't elaborate, Dean cocks his head. "So. Not that I don't appreciate the new body - which, is not even a power I thought people could _have_ \- but this is the part where you tell me what the price is, right? Sam says he didn't make any kind of deal, and the Demons all swear that this had nothing to do with them. You saved _me_ \- my sorry ass out of millions trapped on that world. That means you want something only I can get you. Come on, lay it on me."

The angel just keeps staring at him. It's unnerving, because most of the angel looks so _human_ but that gaze most definitely _is not_. Yet - and this is the part that quietly freaks Dean out the most - there's also something familiar about this presence. A half-remembered lightness shooting through right into a rank and blood-muddy crater.

_I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition._

"You remember, but you pretend you do not." The angel's voice startles Dean, though he's secretly grateful for being snapped out of his thoughts. The memories are too raw, too easy to sink back into. 

"Have you been spying on me?" demands Dean.

"You know my name, but you refuse to call me by it, even in your own mind."

"Dammit, get out of my head!" Dean waves his arms, as if that can somehow break the unrelenting stare. It doesn't. "Castiel. Okay? You said your name is Castiel."

The angel - _Cas_ , because Dean refuses to be bullied into doing anything - doesn't even blink, but the presence behind his gaze is somehow less piercing. "You have had trouble sleeping."

"Seriously?" Dean gives the angel an incredulous look. "What in Hel do you think would happen after you drag someone out of the Pit?"

"I can ease your sleep. I did not foresee that the taint of that place would linger on you in other ways."

Dean clenches his fingers. "No." As fucked up as they are, as messed up as they leave him after, at least the dreams make _sense_. They're _human_. Not like his body; sometimes he can't stand to look at all that unmarked, sparkling new skin. He stomps the length of the motel room and back, jittery. It doesn't help as much as he'd hoped. The motel room's too small.

Castiel watches him, his expression as fixed as a robotic construct's. Dean wonders what he must be thinking.

Clearly the angel is ignoring Dean's instructions to stay out of his head, because he freely answers, "You do not think you deserve to be saved."

Dean looks away. He forces himself to take several deep breaths. "What do you want from me?"  
He hears the swish of that trenchcoat drifting closer. Castiel himself doesn't make a noise. "We have work for you, Dean Winchester."

\+ + +

He eventually tells Sam, because unlike the rest of the world, Sam's expressions of brotherly concern are something Dean is forced to deal with on an hourly basis.

He probably should have done it when he's a little less shit-faced, though.

"Angelus," Sam repeats flatly. "Seriously, Dean? _Angels_? I thought they weren't real. _You've_ always said they're not real."

"Obviously I hallucinated t' one that showed up in m' room," mumbles Dean. He's proud of himself for not slurring. Much. 

Sam's blurry forehead wiggles in a pointedly dubious way. "Are we due for another talk about confusing reality with porn, Dean?"

"Fu' off." Dean attempts a glare. "Shot the bastard. Stabbed 'im. Nothing works. No' even Ruby's knife." No need to mention that he'd done those things prior to reaching the Cemetery, half-mad with pain and still screaming because he couldn't remember how to stop. That would mean admitting that he _remembers_.

"How do you know he's the one who got you out?" Sam continues skeptically. In his lap, a heavily modified quas-shotgun gives a cheery little beep, the bars along the handle blinking green. There's a faint hiss as Sam disengages it from the (also heavily modified) charging dock. It's a fairly hefty gun, but Sam's gargantuan hands make it look like a regular shotgun. Dean always forgets that his little brother isn't a scrawny kid anymore, until little details like this remind him.

"Dean?" There are fingers snapping in front of his face. "I'm guessing you're slipping into the 'maudlin' phase of your drunk cycle, but this is pretty important. How did you know this Castiel is the one who busted you out?"

Dean sighs. But Sam's bound to see it eventually, living in each other's pockets as they are. He reaches over his chest with his left hand and yanks up his right sleeve.

Sam lets out a hiss of sympathy. Dean considers telling him that it used to look worse, the handprint angry red and inflamed, though never painful. (If he's honest with himself, he knows it had been the only part of himself _not_ hurting before Castiel installed him in his new digs.)

"Holy shit," breathes Sam. "Dean, if that's from an angel just _touching_ you..."

_Its name is Castiel,_ Dean wants to say. Instead he reaches out to where he approximates his brother to be, and ends up patting the skin-warm metal shield-emitter locked around Sam's bicep. Sam never takes the damn thing off now, and Dean has no idea when _that_ started. "I know, Sammy."

\+ + +

Fighting lets Dean lose himself for a time, seconds and heartbeats dedicated to nothing but the physical, the zing of danger in his blood, impact and half-ignored pain. He needs it even more now, with all the new crap he wants to turn away from for as long as his life will let him. So he forgets, and forgets, and eventually Sam stops bothering him about it. When Castiel turns up to land a hand, Dean doesn't even realize, just processes an extra body on their side and lets the angel cover his flank.

After, Castiel ignores Sam and nods at Dean, then disappears without saying a word. That's when it finally hits Dean that, oh hey, Cas had helped them. 

"So that was Castiel?" says Sam, looking perturbed. Dean decides that angels are dicks, because Sam has always admired all the stuff angels are said to have been responsible for, had always believed they existed, is the only one between them who is nerd enough to understand the complexities of a multidimensional race. And the very first one he meets doesn't give him the time of day.

"Angels are dicks," Dean declares.

"I'm starting to see what you mean," says Sam with a soft chuckle.

\+ + +

Then,

"Shit," he breathes. He pulls back, sucking a breath through his mouth, but his hand refuses to let go of the lapel of Cas' trenchcoat. "Sorry, Cas. I - uh -"

Cas only says, "Dean," and in the next moment, Dean's back is against the wall. Cas's mouth covers his, tongue shoving between Dean's shock-slackened lips, sweeping inside and tasting every inch of Dean's mouth. Heat flares in Dean's gut, in his groin, fanning out over all the points where they are touching. Dean makes an encouraging noise, tugging Cas closer and spreading his thighs to let Cas slip in between them.

This is good. This is... unbelievably good, actually, even though there's no trace of finesse in the way Cas is mauling his mouth, in the way Cas' hands roam and grope and stroke all over Dean's body like they can't figure out what they're supposed to be doing. The motel room had felt empty and tacky as plastic on the tongue, the bed next to Dean's empty and neat. For once, he's grateful for Cas' formidable presence filling the space between the walls, solid and impossible to ignore.

Dean's wondered, sometimes, but he hasn't, not really, and now it looks like he will, because the thought of letting Castiel leave from this motel room without knowing this of him, without _having_ him, is suddenly unbearable. 

 

Dean's eyes widened. "Wow, Cas, is that an implant or something?" When the angel just looks puzzled, Dean gestures at his half-undone pants. "You're kinda packing."

"If you are referring to this body's genitalia," says Cas, "I had observed that human males seem to place great store in size, so I fashioned one in higher than average proportions, though still within the normal range." He frowns. "It doesn't seem to provide any additonal functional benefits, however."

Dean grins. "Dude, the _benefit_ is for someone else."

 

The strangled shout that rings through the room would be embarassing to Dean in other circumstances, but " _Holy fucking shit_ , Cas, you gotta-" he kicks, somewhat feebly, trying to get Cas to damn well _move_ , but the angel is as implacable as a statue and evidently several times much stronger. Which has its uses, like Cas' hands holding Dean up against the wall like he weighs nothing. But Cas' gorgeous, enormous cock is buried deep in Dean's ass, thick enough that he feels like he's being split apart despite the very thorough stretching Cas had done, and if Cas doesn't do _something_ soon Dean is going to go crazy.

"I -" Cas's voice is rougher than usual, and Dean feels him swallowing. "I knew the theory, I have observed humans engaging in sex for more bio-years than you can comprehend. But the practical experience..." 

He shifts, _finally_ , assaying a slow, shallow thrust that nonetheless has the both of them gasping at the intimate slide of skin. Dean licks a kiss into Cas' mouth, wordlessly conveying his approval of said practical experience. Cas shifts his hold, somehow hoisting Dean up higher. The new angle lets Cas slide in just a little bit deeper. 

"Oh God," Dean moans, mouthing along Cas' jaw. He realizes he's shaking; he feels full up, spread open, his entire body is on _fire_. It's like the part of Cas that exists on a higher dimension is seeping into his molecules, like Cas is everywhere. Not just in him but _in him_ , searing his bones and churning under his skin.

"Cas," he groans. "What-"

"Your body remembers mine," Cas answers. The angel's face looks like he's on the verge of falling apart, but something in his words ring strong and sure, and his grip on Dean never falters. "I found you in that dark place, and cut your bonds, and shaped your body anew." Cas' voice dips into Isarti-levels of growling, and Dean shivers. He kisses Cas again, mostly to stop him from saying anything else. Dean's not a big one for words, but the stuff Cas says - the _reverence_ in that low voice - scrambles his mind, crosses his wires, leaves him breathless and confused and uncertain.

Cas kisses him back hard and fucks him even harder. All Dean can do is hold on, cling to Cas while Cas' hips snap up and drive his stupidly big cock deep into Dean's body. At some point, Dean stops bothering with any pretence of keeping it together and moans shamelessly at the pleasure, the waves and waves of it. He babbles unintelligible encouragements to Cas, his hands clawing at Cas' back where he can feel the sinuous flex of muscles. He nibbles at the bump of Cas' Adam's apple; Cas shudders, and slams his palm against the wall next to Dean's arm. Dean glances over and stares at the palm-shaped dent in the solid wall. A wall of shipsteel, able to withstand gravitational forces and physical collision with minor space debris.

Here is a creature who can obliterate him without breaking a sweat. There are hunters who would go after angels for that reason alone. And he's having sex with one.

And he knows he's completely, perfectly safe.

He's close, so close, without a single touch to his own cock, and then Cas' mouth finds his ear. "You. Are. Mine. Dean Winchester," he whispers, as if imparting a secret. Each word is punctuated by a long, deep thrust, like Cas is driving the very words themselves inside Dean. "You. Are. For. _Me_."

Dean comes.

\+ + +

When Castiel comes back from wherever his douchebag brethren escorted him off to, Dean knows. He knows with a single look, before any words are exchanged. This makes him wonder, belatedly, if as much as he'd berated Cas for stalking him and staring at him and watching him too closely, he'd unknowingly been watching right back.

"They got him, Sammy," Dean says quietly, as they watch _Castiel_ stride towards them. The room is littered with demon bodies, and less than half of those are marked by the Winchesters' arsenal. 

"What do you mean?" asks Sam.

_We should have been more careful,_ almost slips out, except Dean doesn't know who he means by 'we'. "Brainwash. Full systems reboot. Look at his eyes."

"Are you sure?" Sam frowns. "Dude looks the same as always. And isn't that more of a demon thing?"

Dean chuckles, though it's utterly devoid of humor. "Where do you think Hel learned it from?"

_"I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You."_

\+ + +

"Please, Cas," he whispers. He's sworn to himself he wouldn't do this, wouldn't try to find Cas in the creature that calls itself Castiel, but it's the end of the universe and here, the only road that matters is the one that gets him to Sam. "Please."

"Don't you understand? This is as the prophets have foretold." Castiel looks away. 

"Damn you." Dean itches to throw another punch, but his hand is still aching from the first attempt. If this doesn't work, he'll go all out, anyway. He'd rather break every bone in his body than sit quietly while his baby brother is in trouble.

There's a small twitch in the line of Castiel's shoulders. 

Huh. Cas never did learn to stay out of his head.

"Everything is as foretold?" he challenges. " _Everything_?" He doesn't so much as bring up the memories as stop holding them back - the heat of Cas' mouth, the taste of his skin, the slide of sweat down bare backs, exploring each other in the dark and under cheap, harsh lights. Cas' hair has never grown longer in all the time Dean has known him, and Dean's remembers the slide of his fingers through them-

Dean's back hits the wall. Blue eyes bore into his, and all Dean can do is plead, _help me_. 

Cas looks back at him, and nods.

\+ + + connection has been terminated - system has gone off-script + + +

**Author's Note:**

> This can, conceivably, be in the same universe as my X-Men First Class AU [A Curious Carriage of Crystal and Cold](http://archiveofourown.org/works/294647), but they're very discrete and it is not necessary to have read one in order to read the other.


End file.
